


Vitae

by LoudenSwain713



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Drama, Fluff, I have a bad habit of naming my titles in Latin, I wrote the first part of this awhile ago, I'll try to make it as realistic as possible, M/M, McLennon, Time Travel, so i'm sorry if it's horrible, starrison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoudenSwain713/pseuds/LoudenSwain713
Summary: Imagine going back in time to get a second chance at your life.Imagine if you and your mates went back in time to the 1950s.Imagine if you were Paul McCartney.This is what happens one day when a 73-year-old Paul McCartney wakes up in a different but familiar room in his childhood home. What ensues is a tale of love and hate, friendship and rivalry, betrayal and trust.I have nothing against Yoko Ono. In fact, I'm sure she is a lovely person, but for the purposes of this story, she will be portrayed as pure evil.Cross-posted on Wattpad under the name of Trials.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about a year ago, so the next chapters will be better.

Paul McCartney grinned and slung his guitar over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway next to the stage. He saw a smiling Ringo leaning against the wall and stepped up next to him.

"You nervous?" Paul asked his friend.

"A little," Ringo confessed, "It's been a while since I've performed Beatles songs, much less with you."

Paul chuckled, "That's the truth."   
There was a pause now, "Do you ever miss him?"

Ringo nodded, his smile fading. "I do. Do you miss him?"

"Every day." They were talking of two different people, but both their situations were nearly identical. There was an opening of the door at the end of the hallway and a head poked out.

"It's showtime!" the head called and exited, leaving the door to slam shut. Paul and Ringo looked at each other for a second in silence and then the younger man patted the older on the back and they walked together onto the stage.

After the show Paul parted ways with his friend, promising to call him the next day. He slung his guitar on his back as he got out of his car and walked sluggishly to his front door. It had been a long flight from New York, just under five hours, and combined with the security checks, fans, and the stress of playing a three-hour concert Paul was extremely tired. The musician opened the door quietly, but there was really no need as Nancy was away with family and Beatrice was at her mother's. The man walked through the living room before going down a short hallway, passing his recording studio next to the stairs, which he climbed and from there entered his bedroom, which was on the right. He carefully took his guitar off and placed it on the guitar stand by his closet. The musician sighed as he sat on his bed. "I'm too old for these shenanigans," he thought wryly. He lay there for hours, tossing and turning, before he finally went to sleep, dreaming dreams of the old days.

When he woke up the next morning the first thing he noticed was he could move easier than he could before. Paul was in good shape for a man in his 70s, but he was getting on up there in age and his muscles had stiffened somewhat, not to mention he had lost a little stamina over the years. He noticed now that he could move his fingers faster and he wasn't as groggy as he usually was in the morning.

He opened his eyes and sat up to see what had happened and nearly fell out of his bed at the sight he saw. The room was much smaller than the one he had fallen asleep in and it was painted a different colour, a light grey instead of the white walls he had now. It reminded him of the room he had as a teenager in Liverpool, but it couldn't be, as this was just a dream and he was still asleep in his bed in Arizona. Paul got out of bed and walked over to the dresser, surprising himself with the ease it took to get there. He glanced in the mirror briefly, not expecting to see anything different, and let out a yelp as he saw his reflection. His hands rose to touch his face and they jumped back as they felt something strange. No wrinkles. Paul turned back to the mirror, he had turned away when he yelped, and stared in shock. There, right in front of him, was the face of Paul McCartney, but instead of the wrinkles and greying hair he had become accustomed to, there was a young, fresh-faced, 15-year-old staring back at him.

Paul stumbled backwards, bumping into the wall and sliding down to a sitting position. A thought was developing in his mind. Could he be in the past? If he was, which was impossible, could he get back to the present, or rather, the future? What would he do while he was here? Paul didn't know, but he was confused. Thoughts whirled in his head and he sat on the floor, a dazed expression on his face. He would've sat there all day, but a knock on his bedroom door dragged him out of his thoughts.

"Paul, Ivan's here. Hurry downstairs or I'll have to tell the boy you aren't here!"

It was Paul's father, and Paul knew from experience not to keep his father waiting. It had been many years since Paul had seen his father alive, but as much as he missed his father, another thought, a stronger thought, held Paul's attention. If Ivan was here and Paul was 15, that could only mean one thing. Paul grinned as the name of one person coursed through his body. John! Paul pushed himself off the floor and yelled through the door, "I'll be out in a minute!"

Paul heard a grunt as his father turned away from the door. He slipped on a blue checked shirt and a pair of blue jeans. He laced up his dress shoes and ran a hand through his hair to mess it up a bit, but not too much 'cause that would be overdoing it.

Paul raced down the stairs, almost falling head first as he leant forward. He saw Ivan by the front door and said a few words in greeting before running out of the house. Paul was three streets away before he realised that he was supposed to go to St Peter's with Ivan. He stopped and waited for a few minutes before he decided the boy was taking too long and he would have to go alone. Paul had just started to walk when a shout from behind him stopped him.

"Paul! Paul McCartney!" The voice sounded familiar almost like... no, it couldn't be. Except it could because Paul was in the past. He slowly turned around to see a thin figure jogging toward him.

"George?"


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this about a year ago, so my writing wasn't at its best then, but the next chapters will be better.

"Hey, Paul! How have you been?" The cheeky line George's lips drew on his face combined with the tired, almost fearful look in his eyes told Paul exactly what he needed to know.

"Oh, ya know, same old, same old."

George nodded awkwardly, "Well, that's good."

There was uncomfortable silence for a minute until George shifted his weight and a large grin lit up Paul's face "I can't believe it's you, here, alive!"

The younger man tried to smile, though it turned into more of a grimace. "How long?" The words were quiet and Paul wouldn't have heard them if he hadn't been expecting them.

The grin fell from Paul's face almost immediately. "Fourteen years last month." His voice had dropped to a level just slightly above his friend's, and George had to strain to hear them.

"Olivia and Dhani?"

"They're good. Dhani's made a band, Thenewno2. They're very talented, but nowhere near mainstream, thankfully."

George looked at him curiously, his head cocked to the side, vaguely reminding Paul of a dog. "Thankfully?"

"Yeah. If you think the music in 2001 is bad, you should hear it now, it's about 20 times worse."

The younger man whistled through his teeth. "Wow," There was another pause, though not as awkward as the one preceding it. "And Rings, how is he?"

Paul stayed silent for a moment, contemplating what to say. "He's alright." The answer was short and Paul hoped the younger man wouldn't ask any more questions.

George regarded the other man closely. He knew the older man pretended to be tough and indifferent most of the time, especially to the press, but George Harrison was not the press. "Paul..." he started hesitantly, "I know we aren't, weren't, whatever, the closest of friends, but we used to be, in the old days. I want you to know if you ever need to talk about anything you can come to me."

Paul nodded in understanding before he let out a forced laugh in an effort to break the mood. "Leave it to you to turn all sappy on me. You haven't changed one bit, 'ave you Harrison?"

The person in question grinned back in response. Just then a boy Paul's age, or at least the age he appeared, walked up to them. "Honestly Paul, you say we're gonna go together, but then ya go run off and ditch me. Lucky I thought to grab your guitar, or ya wouldn't have anythin' to play later."

Paul had the decency to look a little ashamed, and Ivan, mistaking it for true embarrassment, smirked triumphantly. "Oh sod off Vaughan." Paul glared at him, his grin betraying his fake seriousness. He grabbed his guitar and started to make his way down the street.

* * *

It took them a little more than 20 minutes to get to the fête. It should have taken them up to 40, but Paul and George pushed the pace, forcing themselves and Ivan into an occasional jog. The short sprints were always interrupted by a period of laboured breathing and groans of exhaustion, caused, of course, by the many cigarettes they had smoked. Both George and Paul hadn't smoked in years, for obvious reasons, but the bodies they currently inhabited did so on a daily basis.

The yard of the church was filled with screaming children, bored parents, and a small sprinkling of young adults pretending to babysit their neighbour's youngest child. There was also the large group of teenagers and Teddy Boys, smoke clouding around their heads as they exhaled noxious fumes. Ivan fit right in with the other teenagers, but the time travellers hung back, not quite at ease with their childhood acquaintances.

They stood under the shade of a small tree, protecting themselves from the July sun. "So," George started, "We're just gonna wait here for a bit until they come on?"

"That's the plan." They both tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. "Some plan, innit?" Paul managed to get out as the two of them doubled over in laughter.

"'T's lovely. So detailed." Suddenly George sobered and straightened up as a pensive look came over his face. "It's strange."

Paul looked at him, his expression matching the one next to him. "What is?"

A strange look came over George's features, a mix of confusion and fear with a tiny bit of wonder thrown in. "Well, a little over four hours ago I was at your house, saying goodbye to my family. Now, I'm back in Liverpool, looking like I'm fourteen. It's a bit surreal, is all."

Paul gave another dry chuckle. "That it is."

Another short lapse in conversation followed this exchange of words. In the quiet, George examined all that had happened so far. He had been at Paul's house, he had _died_. Then, he woke up to his older brother, Peter, pouring a cold glass of water on top of him. After a brief argument, which George was glad to say he won, he came to the realisation that, yes, he was in the past, and yes, he had died, but now he was alive. He'd gone downstairs, hoping to find a newspaper and see the date. He had found it, and preceded to stare at it for the next minute and a half, awestruck. His parents had come in, and he'd ran straight to them. George's parents had hugged their son, wondering why he was crying.

"Did you have a nightmare?" His father questioned him. George nodded yes, then shook his head no, at last settling on a shrug.

"A very long one." His voice was hoarse, the cause a mix between the whispered but intense argument he had with his brother and the fact that he was still processing how he was back in time.

George eventually released his parents and went up to his room. He planned to meet Paul before he went to the fête. He spent the next few hours thinking over his predicament. Did the others remember? Would he stay here forever? If he didn't, where would he go? Could he change events, such as John's death, or even his own?

Saving his own life was easier said than done. That required him to stop smoking, and though he had already stopped in the past, or future, as has been stated earlier, his body was used to the regular surge of nicotine coursing through his brain. George had already felt the effects of nicotine withdrawal but had shaken it off at the time.

* * *

George was drawn out of his thoughts by Paul waving a hand in his face. "Hey George mate, are you alright?"

George snapped his head up quickly. "Yeah, I was just thinkin'."

Paul looked at him curiously, "Are you sure? You kinda phased out for a few minutes."

George fixed the other man with a withering glare. "I'm fine! Just..." A wicked grin crossed his features, "Let it be."

Paul rolled his eyes and laughed at his friend's remark. It was almost like old times. Until Ivan ruined it.

"Hey, Paul, it looks like you won't be auditioning later." He walked up to them, looking like the perfect model of a Liverpool teenager. Hair slicked back, dressed in a white shirt and skinny jeans, he was like every other Teddy Boy there, though Paul wondered where his jacket had gone.

"Why's that?" Paul's brown eyes were wide, though the tone of his voice suggested no more than courteous interest.

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Well, the leader of the band, John Lennon, called the gig off. Said they couldn't play."

Both George and Paul's eyebrows rose. They looked at each other, trying to discern the other's thoughts when George spoke. "Do you know why?"

Ivan shrugged again. "Not for sure, but I think I heard one of the lads saying that John's back hurt and he couldn't play. Why do you care anyway?" His eyes had narrowed to suspicious slits and his nose was scrunched up in thought.

"We don't," Paul said hurriedly. "We... I just want to know why he thinks he can just cancel without telling anybody."

Ivan shrugged once again and mumbled something that could have been "Fair enough," but Paul wasn't sure. Then, he turned away and walked back to the cloud of smoke where the shoes of teenagers could barely be seen. Paul and George looked at each other, Paul with a grin, George with a frown.

"Paul, don't jump to conclusions. I know you want to see him again, so do I, but don't get your hopes up."

The bright look on the man's face and in is eyes did not change. "But I know John knows, he isn't here, and I know 17-year-old John wouldn't miss this for anything! Besides, Ivan said his back hurt. He was _shot_ in the back!"

George saw Paul would not be swayed, and the guy _did_ have a point. "Alright," he sighed, "But if we get caught in an awkward situation, I'm not saving your skin."

Paul smiled even wider, if that was possible, and sped off in the direction of John's house. He's like a little kid on Christmas morning, George thought wryly. Then he spotted Paul's guitar case propped up against the tree. He bent to pick it up, shaking his head in fond irritation as he did so. Why was it always him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is appreciated.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It has...been a while. I offer no excuse. I lost motivation, gained some on other projects, and this honestly sat in my computer for a few months untouched. But no more! I've revisited my plot, and I have a much better idea and way of executing it than I'd had before. And yes, this is short. I was planning in making it longer, but it just seemed to naturally stop here. Besides, I figured I should go ahead and give y'all something.

When John woke up, he was momentarily confused. He found himself in a strange bedroom, lying on a strange bed, surrounded by what was most likely the scent of cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes. In other words, his old bedroom. Not the one from his 20’s, with Cynthia, nor the first one he shared with Yoko. No, this was _his_ , from when he was a teenager, living with Mimi. Which didn’t make sense, because the last place he remembered being was in front of his apartment. With Yoko, walking. And then-

           Oh. Well, that certainly changes things, John thought. He’d always wanted to know what death was like. Apparently it shows itself in the form of childhood bedrooms, which, John thought, probably wouldn’t please the religions of the world.

           This sardonic attitude didn’t mean John wasn’t affected by this new revelation. Far from it, actually. It was just that as his hands started to shake from the shock of it all, and his head began to spin, John found his thoughts reverting to their usual coping mechanism: extreme sarcasm. It was a technique he had developed in his early years to stop himself from thinking of his life situation. Except that tried and true method wasn’t working, and of course it wouldn’t, not then, not in light of what had happened.

           As John rolled into a sitting position, his thoughts drifted to his family, his sons specifically. He wouldn’t trick himself into thinking Sean would be ok, losing a parent at an early age would never help a child’s development. But he would be better off than Julian at least, at least Sean wouldn’t remember him much. Julian though, Julian was barely a year older than John had been when his mother died. And everyone, John thought wryly, knows how badly that messed me up. His son would be different though, he had his mom, and Sean, and Paul, if that was any comfort. Which it shouldn’t have been, and if John was anyone else and Paul wasn’t as close to him as he was, it wouldn’t have been. But his former best-friend had helped Julian before, when John had left Cynthia. Not that these circumstances were anywhere near the same.

           Suddenly a loud knock on the bedroom door startled him out of his reverie. John looked at it cautiously, confused. Wasn’t he dead? There shouldn’t be anyone else here, right? “Yeah?” he called out, the quiver in his voice barely audible. The door swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman, a stern expression on her face.

           “John!” she admonished, “Haven’t I told you enough to clean your room?”

           John’s mouth almost dropped open. It was his aunt, Mimi. Exactly as she was back in ’57. Dumbstruck, he said the only thing that came to his mind. “What are you doing here?”

           Mimi fixed him with a glare that, if he was 16, he would have crumpled under. “This isn’t a time for joking. Look at you, you’re not even dressed! You have to be there in an hour.”

           John blinked at her. “Be where?”

           Mimi looked at him for a second then groaned and threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “The fete, of course! Get up and get dressed. And brush your hair! You’re not going to play in front of half the area with your hair like you’ve just got out of bed.”

           John felt the urge to say something like he _had_ just gotten out of bed but decided against it. There were more important things to be doing than talking back to his aunt. Like finding out where he was, and what he was doing there. He had died, that much was obvious, but a question remained of whether he was still dead. It may seem like a stupid thought, but Mimi wasn’t dead, at least not by the last time John knew. And this period in his life certainly wouldn’t be qualified as anything near heaven, though it was equally far away from hell. Where he was didn’t make any sense. Was he reliving key moments in his life? If so, why start so long before he met Paul? Mimi seemed to be acting normally, and up until John changed the script, she had said exactly what she had said all those years before.

           The only sane course, at least as far as John could see, was to let the day play out as it was supposed to and see where that left him. Unfortunately, he didn’t get very far. As he stood up and began to sort through his memories to determine exactly what he had worn the first time, a crippling pain shot up his back.

    Letting out a sharp cry, he tumbled back into his bed in a rather undignified manner. John panted heavily, assessing the pain. He wasn’t really surprised when he found the source centering around his back; it made sense, really. Unfortunately, that kind of threw a wrench in his plans. As he pulled himself up into a sitting position, his aunt burst in. “John? Are you alright?”

    He grimaced. “Not really, no.”

    Mimi frowned, not used to John being so forthcoming with his feelings. “What’s wrong?”

    “It’s my back.” When he saw the confused look on her face, he explained. “I can’t stand, apparently. I…I don’t know how it happened, but I don’t think I’ll be able to play this afternoon.”

    Mimi sighed, frustrated. “John, you can’t just spring something like this on me.”

    The man huffed, getting defensive. “Well I didn’t _ask_ for this! You can be sure of that!”

    Mimi mouth pressed itself into a thin, frowning line. “I’m going to to have phone the church. And then I’m going to see if I can find something for you. I’ll be back.”

As his door closed shut behind her, John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His time spent in India may have been questionable, but he did learn some useful techniques. With a few more measured breaths, he was able to muffle the insanity of his situation and drift into an uneasy sleep.

 

He woke to the front door being slammed shut. He heard Mimi mutter something about “ridiculous teenagers,” before her footsteps came closer. Something inside John twisted and curled in on itself. He shook the feeling away.

He pushed himself into a sitting position when his aunt came in, but, seeing his almost-gray face, she shook her head and pushed him back down gently. “Relax, John. You need your rest. I got you some hot water,” she said, holding up the bag she was holding as proof. Put this where it hurts. And _lay down_ , for God’s sake.”

Refraining from chuckling, John took the bag and pressed it against his back, muttering a thank you. A sigh of relief left his lips as the warmth saturated his skin. His eyes were about to slide shut when something occurred to him. “Hey, Mimi?”

“Yes?” She said, pausing before she crossed the doorway.

“Who were you talking to earlier? At the door?”

Mimi frowned. “Just some boys. Younger than you by a couple of years, I'd say. They wanted to see you. Curious, don't you think?”

Again, that twisting feeling. “Yeah, maybe. Did they mention their names?”

“The one I talked to was Paul, I think he said. Why? Do you know them?”

John couldn't think. Why had Paul come over? He was certain that hadn't happened the first time. Everything was too much and suddenly, though he was laying down, he felt an intense vertigo. “I...I don't know. I think so.”

Mimi shook her head, half in exasperation, half on fondness. “You rest, John. If you don't feel better later, we’ll go so Dr. McKennon.”

John nodded, not really listening. As his aunt closed his bedroom door and the room once again descended into silence, he could only think of one thing, or rather, one person. Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! A special thanks to the people who stuck around while this was on hiatus. It means a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is appreciated!


End file.
